


Your Assignment, Should You Choose to Accept It

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-24
Updated: 2008-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:32:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley's up for review, and his current major failing is far more specific than he'd like.  Even worse, Dagon's slapping down an even <i>more</i> specific ultimatum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Assignment, Should You Choose to Accept It

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in April of 2008.

Crowley fidgeted in his seat, hoping he'd misheard the previous ten minutes of Dagon's litany as read from a document printed in dubious red ink.

"Do you, Crowley, acknowledge that the aforementioned deeds were performed by you precisely as stated?" Dagon droned, not even pretending not to be referring back to the office handbook, which was open on the desk. "Furthermore, do you, the aforementioned, acknowledge that they were, in fact, not even performed at _all_?" During the last bit, he looked at Crowley, which suggested it wasn't in the manual.

"Er," said Crowley, uncomfortably. "Well. You know how these things…er, _go_."

"Fornication is no laughing matter, Crowley. In fact, it's probably the least shirk-able of the duties with which we've charged you lot," Dagon said, waving, as if Crowley counted as an entire legion of devils in and of himself. Had the old bastard missed the part where he, the aforementioned, worked _alone_? Mostly alone, anyway—Crowley had decided long ago that, under these circumstances, Aziraphale's occasional aid emphatically did _not_ count. Dagon was Hell's best telepath by far.

"No," said Crowley. "It really isn't. However, might I point out that the humans in each item of your little laundry list did, in fact, end up…um." Crowley averted his eyes. The mixture of hilarity and embarrassment was simply too much. Hadn't Dagon observed human sexuality in all its absurdity at _some_ point in his immortal life?

"That they did," Dagon agreed mildly. "Not at your incitement, though, if what this says is true. Answer my question: _is_ it?"

Crowley stared at the floor. After a few long moments, he crossed his legs and sighed.

"For example," Dagon pressed on, almost helpfully, "the case of the Etruscans—"

"They started before I could even spike the wine!" protested Crowley, indignant.

"And Hastur notes here that those Roman senators—"

"Were already going at it when I got there," Crowley admitted miserably.

Dagon frowned, scanning farther down the list. "Paris, 25 December 1342?"

" _Their_ idea," said Crowley, rather too emphatically. "Not mine."

"I must say, your failure rate _is_ impressive," Dagon said, turning the page over. "You appear not to have incited a single one of these acts, some of which are particularly admirable. Did you not pay attention during that bit of training?"

 _Given it was millennia ago, how do you bloody expect me to remember?_ Crowley thought. What he said instead was, "Yes, sir. It's all very clear."

"Then what accounts for your particular talent of targeting humans that have already got, for lack of a more delicate way of saying it, nymphomaniac tendencies?"

"Come on, they didn't _all_ —" Crowley bit his tongue, but not soon enough. Careless of him, letting Dagon glimpse his worst secret. Any demon who thought humans weren't exactly _all_ essentially rotten, or even just miserable pawns, tended to meet an unpleasant fate. And in Hell, _fate_ did not necessarily mean the same thing as _end_.

Dagon frowned, and then stamped the piece of paper with at least half a dozen different seals—one of them, Crowley recognized as Hastur's. He set it aside with the rest of Crowley's file, then rummaged in the back folder-pocket of the office handbook. He pulled out a crisp-looking sheet printed in normal black ink and wrote busily for the next five minutes. Crowley tried to catch a glimpse of what he was putting down, but all that he could see was that the sheet had tick-boxes with phrases next to them and, after those, some blocks of blank lines (in which Dagon was writing).

"There," said Dagon, finally, setting aside his pen. He stamped the bottom of the sheet with his own seal and handed it over to Crowley. "Let me know if these terms are agreeable. There's always room for improvement, and this should help you along."

When Crowley hit the part about two centuries' suspension without pay, he spoke up.

"Two hundred years? For 'failing to complete six temptations of a carnal nature' in a fortnight? Surely two _months_ without pay would be suffi—"

"You missed the fine print," Dagon said, leaning over to tap the bottom of the page with his pen. "Protestation results in an additional half-century."

 _Barking mad_ , thought Crowley, seething. "Ah. True. Not so harsh after all."

"I'll have to see about having the punishment revised for next time, then."

"Er, anyway. Perfectly agreeable. I concur. What next?"

"Sign," Dagon said, "and you can be on your way. Of course, we'll know if you don't—"

"And you'll know," replied Crowley, signing with a determined flourish, "if I _do_."

Dagon snatched back the paper and looked it over, then promptly handed it back. "Your _real_ name, Crowley. This 'informal' thing of yours only goes so far."

Sighing heavily, Crowley complied.

* * *

It wasn't so much that humans were difficult to tempt into fornication, or even that they were hard to _read_ as far as their lustful potential, Crowley reflected as he rounded the corner and strolled down the street. It was that they were far too good at tempting _each other_. In Crowley's experience, no intervention—not Heavenly, not Infernal—was sufficient to prevent humans _from_ or convince humans _to_ do what they bloody well pleased to each other in bed. It had been the way of things as far back as Crowley could remember; in fact, the rule seemed to pre-date even beds themselves.

He silenced the bell as he pushed his way through Aziraphale's front door. He wasn't in the mood to be the target of a flood of insipid pleasantries aimed at a presumed customer, assuming Aziraphale was in that sort of mood. 

The angel rarely was, but Crowley wasn't about to take any chances.

"Long day?" Aziraphale called from the back, his tone conversational.

"You have no idea," Crowley said, not bothering to nip into the kitchenette for his usual stolen biscuit. "Is it just me, or are these review sessions getting tougher since—well, you know. That whole bloody week they seem to have no record of."

"I'm not due for another six months," said Aziraphale, not glancing up from his crossword. "Gabriel inexplicably canceled on me—and, I suspect, everybody else."

"Lucky buggers," Crowley muttered, sullenly taking a seat across from him.

Aziraphale set aside the crossword and folded his fingers into a neat steeple. "What did they suggest as far as improvements go? Heaven knows that's always the worst of it. One might try _smiling_ more, or being more patient, or—"

"If I was in a better mood, I'd be proud of your sarcasm," said Crowley. "None of the above. I'm being made to…um." And it was then he knew he couldn't _possibly_ say it. Humiliated, he took the badly crumpled carbon copy out of his coat pocket and slid it across the table. He closed his eyes and wished for a swift, painless death.

"My _dear_ ," said Aziraphale, sounding faintly impressed. "That shouldn't be too terribly difficult. My problem's sometimes the opposite, in fact."

It took a few seconds for the statement to sink in, but when it did, Crowley gaped.

"It's sometimes _what_?"

Suddenly flustered, Aziraphale folded the sheet and slid it back across the table to Crowley. "Well, I should first like to mention that I never—" Aziraphale cleared his throat, punctuating each word with a stab of his index finger "—under _any_ circumstances employed any means of subliminal suggestion for my own amusement. It's absolutely _appalling_ when it happens: I want you to understand that."

"Oh, I do, I do," Crowley reassured him hastily, unable to fathom to what Aziraphale could possibly be referring. "Carry on."

Aziraphale stared at the table for a few seconds, then nodded. "Well, they—that is, _some_ of them, as it's not as if it happens with _every_ case of visionary ecstasy I'm assigned to induce, _however_ —"

"Saint Theresa," Crowley blurted, smacking the table. "Suddenly, that statue makes a _lot_ more sense. You know, last spring when we were in Rome, I—"

"It's bad enough the phenomenon's captured in _stone_!" hissed Aziraphale, redder in the face than Crowley had seen him since that bad turn where they both fell asleep while taking some sun on holiday in Majorca. "I take it you've got the gist, though."

"Abundantly," said Crowley, mind spinning. "It's, er, very unexpected. Very _very_. Just dreadful— _oh_! And Caravaggio's Saul—er, _Paul_ on the road to—"

"One would think they'd have cleared their minds before sitting down to earnest prayer. You'd be amazed how little difference it makes—alone, together, in _groups_ …"

"Oh, is _that_ what that whole Cathar flap was about? We always did wonder, as we had nothing to do with it. In fact," Crowley said, half impressed and half disgusted, "it was on Dagon's list. Speaking of amazement, it was so damned long—"

"Really, Crowley," said Aziraphale, huffily. "It _isn't_ funny."

"No," Crowley replied, "but we might turn it to m— _um_. Our advantage."

"I can see nothing to be gained of sexual ecstasy being mistaken for religious fervor," Aziraphale muttered. "Haven't they deluded themselves badly enough? I swear, in all those cases, I hadn't so much as shown _up_ when…"

Crowley smacked the table again. 

"That's humans for you, isn't it? Always going and starting without you! And getting it all wrong, too. Anyway, as I was saying, we could—"

"Actually, I don't know about the Cathars, either, but I can tell you they weren't pleased about all those goings-on at the Temple Mount during the Crusades. And they thought they were being clever, 'making up' all those accusations—which, by the way, I always assumed _you_ had something to do with."

"You've been reading too much Eco," said Crowley, leaning across the table and shaking Aziraphale by the shoulders. "Just hear me out: if you're willing to come on assignment with me for, say, the next fortnight, everybody will get what they want."

Aziraphale blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Crowley sighed and let go of him. "Look, it's really simple. All you have to do is point out to me six different people, couples, groups—whatever floats your boat—in whom you'd normally try to incite ecstatic visions or whatever, and I'll do the angel-thing like when I'm covering your gigs, and poof, they'll—"

"I don't like this," said Aziraphale, flatly. "I don't like this at _all_."

"Listen," Crowley said. "If I don't get paid, all dinner-date bets are _off_. For two and a half centuries. What if the world economy collapses and the Ritz goes under?"

At that, Aziraphale appeared to experience a moment of genuine alarm.

"I _suppose_ ," ventured the angel, tentatively, several seconds later, "that it'd warrant no more notice than when we do standard swaps, would it?"

"Absolutely not," said Crowley, relaxing a little. "You'd only be pointing them out to me. And _giving_ small pointers, of course."

Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek, seriously considering it. "I suppose I've got the time. In the wake of Gabriel's cancellation, I've sort of come to consider myself on a bit of leave. Your lot are being dreadfully hard on everybody, it sounds like."

"And _I'm_ everybody," Crowley sighed, not even faking how pathetic he felt.

"Well, in that case, I can't see much harm in it," Aziraphale said at last. "It's only six, and we can spread them out without difficulty. After all, we've got fourteen days."

"You make it sound pretty easy," said Crowley, hopefully.

"You'll owe me," Aziraphale replied. "Of course."

"Of course," agreed Crowley, for the moment so glad he wouldn't have to give up his monthly shopping binges that he could cry.

* * *

"Over there," said Aziraphale, out of the corner of his mouth. He pretended to be engrossed in his copy of _The Times_ , scarcely moving a muscle. "The girl. She's considering the ministry—Anglican, of course—and she's been praying for confirmation for _weeks_ , the poor dear." He paused, lowering his paper, glancing apologetically at the newsstand's impatient proprietor. "I'm not looking forward to this, you know. That young man really loves her, even though he doesn't approve—"

"She'll do," said Crowley. "So, what have I got to do? Step up, make sure she doesn't notice me, and whisper saintly-sweet nothings in her ear?"

Aziraphale raised the paper again, not meeting Crowley's gaze. "I'd try just _looking_ at her, if I were you. From closer range, of course."

"Right," Crowley said. The young woman was sitting directly across the street from them, engrossed in deep (and apparently upsetting) conversation with her young man. Above them, Hatshepsut's obelisk loomed ominously.

"Leave it to you to work the bloody tube," Crowley muttered, stepping up to the edge of the pavement and looking both ways before he strode into the busy street. The girl didn't even seem to notice when the rest of the crossing crowd parted, leaving Crowley almost directly in front of her and her paramour. They were both crying.

Crowley's throat constricted. The girl's eyes were true green, like you rarely saw anymore, and her hair fell in auburn waves past her shoulders. She might have modeled for Botticelli if she'd been born in the right century. Before he could have second thoughts, Aziraphale's voice cut through his thoughts: _She'll look at you any second, my dear._ Swallowing, Crowley removed his shades and tried to think arousing thoughts. _Quit stalling_ , Aziraphale whispered, and a shiver went down his spine.

The girl locked eyes with him for two long, interminable seconds, and trembled.

Crowley promptly turned his back on the most appalling PDA he'd seen since—well, probably the Etruscans—and walked away, not bothering to look both ways. He trusted all the motorists would be inclined to miss him. Which, of course, they were.

"So, what happens now?" Crowley asked, snatching _The Times_ right out of Aziraphale's trembling hands. "She'll have a 'religious experience' confirming that maybe she's not cut out for ministering to God's flock after all?"

"Something like that," said Aziraphale, dead pale even in the early summer light. "I _did_ warn you. It's not for the faint of heart."

"My question is," Crowley hissed, grabbing Aziraphale by the shoulder and rushing him into the tube station, "was that _your_ doing, or was it _mine_?"

"Hard to say," Aziraphale replied, distractedly looking for the passage to the correct platform. "Where are we going now, anyway?"

"I need a drink," muttered Crowley, and dragged Aziraphale to the right.

* * *

"You can't take it so _personally_ ," slurred the angel, gesturing precariously with his third glass of white Burgundy. "You have to remember she was thing— _think_ ing it anyway. All you did was help her along."

Crowley stared blankly into his glass of port. 

"Then why do _I_ feel violated?"

"'Cause you're a prude," said Aziraphale, matter-of-factly. "Bittest—um, _biggest_ one I ever saw. 'Struth. Lasstime I checked, you couldn' abide hanholb—hand—"

"Shut up," muttered Crowley. "I can too. That witch in Tadfield an' her bloody tech-dork whatsisface. They did more than…er…"

"See?" Aziraphale gloated, beaming. "You're hopeless."

"Oh, and I suppose _you_ were a pinnacle of fortiture— _tude_ —forti…um, _thing_ when we were talking in your shop yesterday. Why, you couldn't even look me in th'eye."

"I'd have looked you in the eye if I could bloody well _see_ 'em!"

"Oh," said Crowley, staring back into his drink. "I see."

Aziraphale nodded, satisfied with himself, and emptied his glass. 

"Waiter? Some more of this, please."

* * *

They didn't speak much in the following days, although seventy-two hours was about as far as Crowley was able to get before he realized they had better knock off another two targets. The quicker, the better, he reasoned, still vaguely hung-over. The drinking hadn't stopped when they'd finally left the restaurant and parted ways.

Far from it.

"If _you're_ not too traumatized, that is," Crowley added cajolingly. "I think I've toughened up a bit, to be honest. Besides, that girl's happier now. She must be."

"She'll have doubts for the rest of her life. But, yes, happier—for now."

"That's as good as one can hope for, really," replied Crowley, with as much confidence as he could manage. "What d'you say to meeting up in the park, working from there?"

"I doubt we'll need to _leave_ the park," Aziraphale said darkly. "Not in this weather."

"Point," said Crowley. "See you in half an hour." With that, he hung up.

For once, Aziraphale wasn't the first one to arrive at St. James's. Crowley stood on the bridge for a full ten minutes before the angel appeared, looking a bit harried.

"Spot any potential targets on your way in?" he asked, hopeful.

"Follow me," Aziraphale panted, not even pausing to catch his breath. "This one could be important. Er, for _your_ lot, anyway. I don't exactly approve."

"Whatever," said Crowley, and rushed after him. 

He tried to ignore his churning stomach.

"That young man at the edge of the blanket," explained Aziraphale, trying his best to keep them both hidden behind a large-ish tree, "has just taken his refuge vows."

"His what?" Crowley asked.

"It's a Zen Buddhist thing. Consider it vows of…moderation and decency."

"Then shouldn't I be tempting him into alcoholism or something?"

"Avoiding sexual indecencies is one of the things he swore to."

"And according to Zen Buddhists, sexual indecencies would be?"

" _Shhh_ ," hissed Aziraphale. "Keep your voice down. Cheating on his partner, for one."

"Is his partner anywhere in the group?" Crowley whispered, frowning.

"No. That's the point," Aziraphale replied with trepidation. "See the blonde to his right? He's got a…er, a _thing_ for her, as they say these days. Terribly troublesome."

"They're in the middle of a bloody _park_. What are we aiming for, hand-holding?" Crowley asked, unable to keep the venom out of his voice. The weekend still stung.

"Something slightly more ambitious," murmured Aziraphale. "See, the blonde, she's with her…er…see those two across from her? Involved."

"With each other?"

"With _her_. All of them. You know, sort of a…"

"Oh," muttered Crowley. "What's the Buddhist think?"

"He's in denial," Aziraphale explained, somewhat sadly. "Very much so."

Crowley swallowed. "Who do I look at, then?"

"The blonde and the…um, Buddhist. I'd try that, anyway."

"You'd _try_ it," Crowley spat, sidling halfway around the tree. He hadn't even bothered with his shades this time. Maybe the problem was that he bothered with his shades _most_ of the time. There was something to be said for direct eye contact.

He barely had to seek out the Buddhist—granted, it may have been the curiously tender brush of Aziraphale's fingertips at his wrist that startled him into it. The young man's eyes fell directly on him, dark with doubt. The blonde turned her head toward the Buddhist almost at the same moment, glinting pale slate in the afternoon sun. 

She _laughed_.

And then the four young people were _all_ laughing, and the blonde's hand was on the Buddhist's thigh, and one of her—friends, lovers?—suggested that they all get out of the sun and have a few pints "back at the flat." Crowley stood completely frozen, watching them rise, shake out the blanket, and start to leave. The Buddhist was holding the blonde's hand tightly in his own, smiling as if he hadn't just…

"I hate this," said Crowley, turning swiftly back to Aziraphale. "Let's leave."

" _That_ one ought to score you some points. Now, I was thinking next—"

"There can't _be_ a next, this _isn't_ —"

"You'll fall behind," Aziraphale said worriedly, and took him firmly by the hand.

Crowley stumbled behind him, something dizzy and dangerous ringing in his ears.

* * *

"Oh, God," Crowley whispered, still hiding behind his hands. He hadn't even touched his wine. "And I thought I was going to Hell for that job in the park, I _really_ thought—"

"Don't be silly," said Aziraphale. "You've already gone. Besides, that chap had committed a few offenses already; it wasn't as if you had to _push_ him to—"

"You," said Crowley, flatly, "are _sick_."

And it was then, for the first time since all this sordid nonsense had started, that Aziraphale looked distinctly, deeply hurt. He shoved his own glass aside, splashing crimson between them across the rough wood of the tabletop.

"You know," began the angel, slowly and precisely in spite (or because) of his inebriation, "I've really—I mean _really_ —had enough of your cheek. It's been a long time since you've come to me for help—I mean _sincerely_ , of course—and I thought maybe this would count as a sort of good turn, however, as you put it, sordid. I feel quite obligated to inform you that you are, per usual, in danger of royally bollixing this up. Not to mention…" Aziraphale trailed off briefly, as if he didn't know how to continue, and reached for Crowley's wrist for the second time that day. "Not to _mention_ , I'm not certain what I'd do with myself if you weren't around to…"

Crowley swiftly withdrew his hands from the tabletop and folded them in his lap. He wasn't about to let Aziraphale go sentimental on him _again_. The last time had been bad enough, what with all that bottle-sharing and sleeve-wiping nonsense…

At the time, Crowley had _really_ thought cleaning the bottle unnecessary. They'd been in this together for _how_ long? Surely they'd exchanged bacteria, to which they were immune anyway, on countless occasions before then. Accidentally, of course.

"Crowley? Are you even _listening_ to me?"

"No," Crowley said, and, grabbing his glass of wine, finished it in three gulps. "'M not." As he got up and put on his coat, he _did_ happen to notice that Aziraphale's high color and watery eyes looked to have more cause than just the alcohol. He tried not to think terribly hard about it. "Leaving, going to get some rest. Three down and all that rot."

Aziraphale was momentarily shocked out of his sentimental fit, or whatever it was. "Wait, d'you mean today's lot doesn't put you _over_?"

"Six different _instances_ , not six different people," Crowley reminded him. "I thought you'd got the shape of this thing."

"'S shaped a lot like my glass at the minute, if you ask me."

"Then I'll leave you to ponder," said Crowley. He slapped down a twenty and left.

"So we're not celebrating, then?" Aziraphale called after him.

 _No_ , Crowley thought, welcoming the chilly night breeze, _because I think you're celebrating something else entirely, and I'm not sure I've quite caught up with you_.

* * *

Crowley was aware that a gap of five days was probably dangerous to the momentum they'd gathered, but he was able to justify it to himself in a myriad pathetic ways.

"Not least," he reasoned to his plants, "because it's going to take me a while to reconcile the fact that our most sacred of old haunts has irrevocably become a den of debauchery. I mean—Buddhists, polyamory, and arse-grabbing! Can you _believe_ it?"

He spritzed the ficus until it looked vaguely green around the roots.

"Yeah, well, it makes me sick, too," Crowley reassured it. "Next time _you're_ out on the pavement branches-first, just wait and see…"

His African violets, on the other hand, had perked up considerably.

"Perverts," said Crowley, and left them to their perking.

Without skipping a beat, the phone rang. Reluctantly, Crowley set down the plant mister and took his time getting back the hall to his office in order to answer it. One glance at the caller ID box told him what he already knew. _Drat_.

He picked up the receiver and said, "Speak of the devil."

"My dear, that's either the most creative or the most insulting greeting you've thought up yet. Or have you and the plants been gossiping again?"

 _Ouch_ , Crowley thought. _Nice one_. "Actually, it's more in reference to your astonishing new hobby. I almost regret having asked you for help, but needs must. What's next on your appalling little docket? A nip inside the St. Patrick's confessional?"

" _Really_ , Crowley. I've got better taste than that."

"Soho Square's around the corner. Why walk three miles when you can walk one?"

"Very funny. I was calling to see if you fancied a bite to eat."

Crowley's stomach growled, but he ignored it. "I've recently come to associate you with losing my appetite. We might as well carry on. I've got less than a week left."

Aziraphale drew in his breath, and then released it. "True enough. I was hoping you wouldn't bring it up. You're right about one thing: it's not as if I've been terribly…kind in my choice of targets. I was assuming your lot would want the worst of it."

"Wait," said Crowley, holding up one hand. "Let's back up for a second. Do you mean to tell me you've been dishing out the flesh-crawling stuff when you could, in fact, have been serving much milder fare?"

"Well, yes," admitted Aziraphale. "Seduction's not all bad, even when it's accidental."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but none of this has been _exactly_ accidental. Am I right?"

"Sort of! I don't know! This has all grown dreadfully complex, and I'm not so sure—"

"If you're not here in ten minutes," said Crowley, "all bets are off. And I do mean _all_ of them, including the one that starts with a capital 'A'."

" _Ten_? But that means I'll have to—"

"Run, jog, take a cab. I don't care. Just _be_ here," Crowley said, and hung up. He felt sorry for all the abuse his phone cradle and Aziraphale's ear had taken recently. He sat down at his desk and started fiddling with a loose thread on his trousers.

Eight minutes later, the doorbell rang. His first impulse was to run, but he held himself to the same leisurely pace at which he'd answered the phone. Aziraphale deserved to suffer a few more seconds' anxiety, as far as he was concerned.

"It's never as far as I think," Aziraphale panted as Crowley opened the door. "I cut through the park. It's a lovely day, you know. I was thinking we might start out—"

"And I was thinking," said Crowley, yanking him inside, "that we might work from home, as it were. First things first: there's a sad little pensioner lady living next door. Is there any way we might, I don't know, induce some soft-core American Evangelism on her telly? She might find it…interactive, if it's fervent enough."

"Cheap. Your cheapest yet, in fact. I have no actual talent, and you know it."

"Then I'll do it," Crowley continued, almost desperately. "Just tell me what channel—no offense—that rot was on, and I'll have it sorted in a second."

"I'm fairly certain the station was, er, _in_ America. You might be dealing with more than a handful of satellites. Are those terribly different from wires?"

"You're an idiot," said Crowley. "Will you excuse me for a few seconds? Feel free to have a seat upstairs, and don't you dare eat all my biscuits." 

With that, he squeezed his eyes shut and vanished with a _pop_.

This kind of stunt was sure to raise a few eyebrows Down Below—but then, that was exactly what this campaign needed about now. A little flair could only help him, and as long as one didn't do it _too_ often, a little incorporeality never hurt anyone. 

As it turned out, it took a journey through several major undersea Atlantic cables and bouncing off half a dozen satellites, but, in the end, he was fairly certain that what ended up on Mrs. Huddersfield's screen was sufficiently laced with inexplicable Jane Austen quotations to keep the old bat flustered for at least a few hours, at which point she'd fall asleep and the naughty dreams would (hopefully) kick in. And, Crowley figured, as he raced back to London at roughly the speed of sound, this one _had_ to count as a two-for: Austen was racy enough that the preacher was bound to get his rocks off later on when his wife would, undoubtedly, pounce him in a fit of I-didn't-know-you'd-read-that passion. The way he saw it, everyone would be happy. 

Guilty, but happy.

As he materialized inside his own front door—exactly where he'd been standing before—it occurred to him that he'd perhaps been a bit hard on Aziraphale. The angel had only meant well in presenting Crowley with worst-case scenarios, hadn't he? Granted, Dagon was going to appreciate the subtle artistry and self-torture at play in the first three hits. No doubt about _that_. Crowley strolled up the stairs and found Aziraphale flipping channels on the sofa. He dropped the remote control in surprise.

"That was some short work, all things considered. I, er, haven't had a nip down to check on your neighbor, but I must say, that was some clever thinking on your feet, and _entirely_ your style. Why didn't you think of it before?"

"Requires effort," said Crowley, yawning, and took a seat beside him. "Is my nose on straight? I hate reconfiguring after a transformation. Makes my bones itch."

"Does it? I usually find the whole process rather pleasant, what with every atom being re-formed from scratch. Energizing."

"Yes, but you're not normal," Crowley reminded him, fishing the remote control off the floor. He turned off the television and set the remote back on the coffee table. The silence was just as deafening as he'd expected it would be, and twice as awkward.

Aziraphale sighed. "And then there was one."

"Could leave it for a few days," Crowley reasoned. "Time enough to plot a big finale, and all that. I'll bet you've got something _really_ twisted up your sleeve for the last act, haven't you? What'll it be? Bestiality? Someone who only gets off on rutabagas?"

Aziraphale sniffed. "I find your assumptions entirely crude and distasteful. And no, come to it: I hadn't planned _anything_ for the last. I was going to suggest you take it on yourself, see if you'd learned a thing or two. However, I can see the chances of that are slim to none. Besides, I'm sure you wouldn't recognize genuine ecstasy of _any_ sort, even if it hit you on the head. You're too miserable."

It was the longest speech that Aziraphale had leveled at him in some months, and certainly the most informative. Crowley opened his mouth with intent to refute at least half of Aziraphale's claims, but, one by one, he found them entirely _true_. The infuriating thing wasn't so much that the angel was right, but that he'd backed Crowley into the worst kind of corner there was. Crowley had something to prove after all, and it wasn't in the least what he'd thought it was. The dangerous buzz was back in his ears, and it had nothing to do with the residual satellite interference, either.

"My dear, don't just sit there and gape like a fish. Perhaps I was a bit ha— _mmmf_?"

 _I'll give you prudish_ , Crowley thought, pleased by how enthusiastically Aziraphale returned the kiss once he'd got over the momentary shock of it. And he hoped Dagon wouldn't register this one on the books, because number seven was going to be something _truly_ absurd and spectacular. Preferably involving nuns.

Number six, though: number six was strictly for _them_. And if Aziraphale was still bent on calling him a prude afterward, he'd have to work on the whole hand-holding thing.


End file.
